


You'll Not Feel the Drowning

by mirandu



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirandu/pseuds/mirandu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And when she came back, she was nobody’s wife.  // Post-ep 8.  I got it into my head that once Hannibal realized Will had kissed Alana, he would decide to seduce her as part of his fixation/obsession with Will.  Then it turned into her POV instead.  Potentially dub-con.  Mostly Hannibal/Alana, with references to Will/Alana.  And maybe some Hannibal/Will.  If you squint.  (OR:  Alana and Hannibal talk about control.  Then they have sex against a piano.  Because that would totally happen.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Not Feel the Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to B. for doing recipe research for me. Because even though you can't tell, we totally did that. It's a true friend who will help you figure out what sort of recipes you can substitute humans in for any given situation.
> 
> Also, because I was totally confused on this point: It took me forever to decide whether or not Hannibal's office and his house were different places. They are. So if anyone else out there is unobservant like me, now you know!

_I am sending back the key_  
 _that let me into bluebeard’s study;_  
 _because he would make love to me_  
 _I am sending back the key;_

_in his eye’s darkroom I can see_  
 _my X-rayed heart, dissected body :_  
 _I am sending back the key_  
 _that let me into bluebeard’s study._  
\-- Bluebeard, Sylvia Plath

 

From far off, Alana can hear the sound of thunder. It rumbles through the gentle strains of the music that plays in the room. Notes dip and rise, punctuated by a sudden clap that shakes the sky. Hannibal has left the windows open, and even in the warmth of his big, clean kitchen, the air smells of rain. It _isn’t_ raining, not yet—the storm hasn’t reached them—but beneath the smells of garlic and pepper, there’s that faint scent of moisture and electricity, a sort of charge in the atmosphere. A sense of waiting, like an indrawn breath.

Alana takes a sip of her beer, then holds the glass out in front of her, turning it in her hand. Through the amber liquid, she can see Hannibal work. He’s chopping garlic, moving the knife with a steady rhythm. Cooking is a ritual with him, she’s noticed, an act of artistry. Often he’ll allow her to help, but not tonight. Tonight she is a passive participant, set in the role of observer—set there by him.

Lowering her glass, she runs two fingers along the smooth pane of the countertop. “You’ve been very quiet.”

His hands still. He glances up at her, an easy half-smile on his face. “What would you like to talk about?”

“The reason I’m here, maybe?”

“You’re here to be indulged.”

That annoys her, and she allows it to show on her face. She knows Hannibal well enough to understand that he chooses words with the same meticulous care that he chooses his clothing. He is indulging her—he actually let her decide on their menu, and she opted for steaks rather than something more sophisticated, though he’s giving the meal his usual attention and flair. But that’s not what he means by indulgence.

“Now what have I done?” he asks, still smiling.

Their conversation from a few days prior drifts back to her. _You’ve been through a traumatic experience_ , she’d said. _I just wanted you to know that I’m available if you want to talk—not as a doctor, but as a friend._

 _Come over and I’ll cook for you_ , he’d answered.

Really, she thinks now, she ought to have known better. Hannibal has always been an exceptionally private man. Whatever solace or comfort he requires, he has his own avenues for providing it. Their friendship succeeds because she has an innate respect for boundaries. She has never tried to search beneath the surface, even though she’s sensed it there—the gleam of his interior self that he’s so careful to conceal.

But perhaps Alana is the one who needs comfort, and that’s why she’s here. Like a child who has stepped outside and found the world askew, she is fleeing back into familiar things, attempting to orient herself.

She has been thinking about Will Graham.

About his voice, about that little grin of his. About the way, for once, his eyes didn’t slide from hers. About kissing him. She’s spent entirely too much time thinking about that kiss. An inappropriate amount of time, really. And it’s not always thinking, either—sometimes it’s imagining. Imagining kissing. Imagining doing other things with him.

She needs to put a stop to it. Honesty is the only violent streak Alana possesses, and she has always been more brutal with herself than with others. That’s a dead end, she knows. A road running straight into heartache, for both of them. Better to change course. Better to reverse direction.

“It appears I’ve lost you,” Hannibal says. He has finished with the garlic, adding it to the marinade after he takes a sip of his wine.

The laugh she lets out is somewhat shaky. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. You were going to tell me what I’ve done to give offense.”

“Was I?” She takes another drink of beer, slowly, letting it cool her throat. Then, collected once more, she sets the glass on the counter and turns to face him. “Hannibal, if you don’t want discuss what happened, you could’ve just told me so. I’m a big girl. You didn’t need to indulge me.”

“But then I’d have been denied the pleasure of your company.”

He says it so quickly, so smoothly—with just the slightest suggestion of flirtation—that at first Alana thinks nothing of it. This is his manner; it’s a means of deflecting. She’s called him on it before, and is considering doing so again—but his gaze lingers on her, and his eyes are very alert, and the smile he gives her now is anything but easy.

The air in her lungs feels strangely solid. Outside, it’s started raining, and Alana turns away, crossing the room to close the window. She pauses with her fingers on the sill, breathing long and deep, feeling the surge of wind that thrashes against the screen. When she tugs down on the pane and latches it, the room is suddenly smaller.

Behind her, Hannibal has placed the steaks in the marinade and set them in the refrigerator. She stays silent as he washes his hands, dries them neatly, and removes his apron. He doesn’t bother to unroll his sleeves. His eyes flick toward the clock.

“Now we wait,” he says, laying his apron on the counter. “Come. If we’re going into session, let’s do so properly.”

He strides past her, out of the kitchen, leaving her no choice but to follow. Alana has been in his house many times before, but it strikes her now that most of their time is spent in only a few rooms, none of which he is guiding her to now. They enter a sort of home office or study—smaller than his public office, similar in feel, but not the same. There are bookshelves built into the walls, rows of thick volumes set among the slender spines of medical journals, a big wooden desk at the far end of the room. In the corner, near the fireplace, two chairs sit facing each other. The faint, library scent of old books hangs in the air. They have left music behind; there is only silence here, and Alana listens to her heels tap the hardwood floor as she walks, making a slow, deliberate examination of her surroundings. It’s a comfortable room, though not what she would describe as homey. It doesn’t feel lived in so much as existed in. Still, this is a private place for him, she senses. Not meant for outside view.

Yet he has brought her into it. He hasn’t spoken, but because she is alert to nuance—too alert, sometimes—she understands the message. This room that is his now includes her, too. He is altering boundaries, redrawing borders. And he’s watching her as he does it. Though she isn’t facing him, she can feel the weight of his gaze; she can even guess at his expression.

“Tell me, Dr. Bloom,” he says. There’s a note of humor in his voice when he speaks. He’s guessing her thought process, too. Well—they’re both observers by nature; she can hardly fault him for that. “What is your analysis?”

“You’re not looking for analysis,” she says, keeping her tone purposely light, wry. She traces her thumb down the spine of a book. Herodotus, _The Histories_. An old copy. The red of its cover is worn to the color of rust.

“On the contrary, I have great respect for your insight.”

“But the fact remains that you didn’t bring me in here for a session.”

“Then why did I?”

Alana doesn’t answer. Instead, she crosses the room to a piano set in the far corner, lifting the fallboard and playing a few quick notes, the beginning of some half-remembered song. The music is loud in the quiet; it has an echoing quality she didn’t anticipate, calling attention to the stillness. From outside, she can hear the beat of the rain. Nothing else, except her own breath. She lays her hand flat against the piano keys, not pressing hard enough to produce sound, simply feeling the cool ivory on her skin.

“I didn’t know you played,” Hannibal says from behind her. Though he’s moved slightly closer, he’s maintaining his distance, keeping a few paces away—careful not to crowd her, it seems.

But she feels crowded all the same. It’s not a feeling she appreciates. She turns, leaning back against the piano, and faces him. “I don’t. Not for years, anyway.”

“Why did you stop?”

He’s smiling at her again, warmly. He looks very handsome, standing across from her with his sleeves rolled up, his expression open and friendly. His every word and gesture has a sleek sort of grace. But that’s the point, she supposes. Her eyes narrow. “You asked why I think you’ve brought me here. All right, I’ll tell you. You’re trying to signal something to me. A change in our relationship. Which leads me to wonder why.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she lies. “But I believe you’re trying to.”

“For what purpose?”

“You’ll have to tell me.” She takes in a deep breath. For half a moment, she considers playing it off—she could laugh lightly, say something flirtatious and leave it at that. But since she is a great believer in being direct, instead she meets his gaze and asks, “Hannibal, are you trying to seduce me?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. Just says, in that deceptively quiet way of his, “Is it working?”

_Well._

She takes a moment to process that. There’s an attraction between them, certainly—but there’s always been an attraction between them. A little sizzle of friction that lies beneath every look they exchange, every word they speak. A kind of heat. Since the very day they met, it’s been there, latent, almost unacknowledged. He’s never attempted to explore it before, at least not in any serious manner. He has charmed other women—she’s seen it happen, even studied it in an abstract, objective sort of way—but until now she has never felt the full focus of his attention.

She’s always wondered what would happen if he turned that charm on her.

If she’d be able to resist.

If she’d even want to.

“I’ll let you know,” she says, weighing her words, analyzing, turning it over again and again in her head. Timing. Circumstance. Strategy. Intent. “You invited me over here to discuss the attack in your office, but we haven’t even broached the subject. So are you seducing me to deflect from what happened, or are you using what happened to seduce me?”

“It can’t be both?”

“We’ve known each other for years—so why now?”

“Why not now?”

His voice is very quiet; she wonders if the edge she senses is real or imagined. She closes her eyes, briefly. “I kissed Will Graham.”

“Have you decided to pursue a romantic relationship with him?”

He knew it. Of course he did. She feels a surge of heat, and she isn’t sure if it’s anger or embarrassment. “I’ve decided not to. That isn’t the point. Will has enough problems, and the last thing I want to do is hurt him. So, again, I have to ask—why _now_? Are you simply trying to mark territory? I’m not an object, Hannibal. Is this about him, or is it about me?”

“Perhaps it’s about me,” he says.

“Of that I have little doubt.”

“What I mean is, sometimes facing death makes a man reassess his life.”

“Not you.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes at that, and guilt thickens within her. She is the one who offered to talk to him—and now she’s dismissed his feelings out of hand.

Alana sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t well done of me.”

His smile returns, but there’s a look in his eyes she can’t quite read. “You are forgiven. I don’t see you as an object, Alana. I see you as a woman—and as my friend. I feel I can trust you.”

“You _can_ trust me.”

“Good. Then shall I share my technique with you, since we have agreed that you’re trustworthy?”

There’s no mystery to the look he gives her now. The heat between them flares; she can feel it, physically, and has a strange sensation of falling while standing perfectly still. She makes a concentrated effort not to move, not to show he’s having any sort of effect upon her. “Exactly what sort of technique are we talking about, here?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

“For seduction.”

“Won’t that ruin it?” she asks.

“Not at all. But perhaps you’d care to guess first?”

She considers it a moment. “I’ve only had one beer, so you’re not plying me with liquor. There’s no music, so you can’t coax me into dancing.”

“But we’re already dancing,” he says.

That’s when Alana knows she’s in trouble. Her heart actually misses a beat. 

“And I wouldn’t insult you like that,” he adds, his lips tilting again.

She finds herself smiling back. “You’re right, something so obvious isn’t your style—you forget, I’ve seen you at work.”

“I don’t forget,” Hannibal says. “I’m appealing to your curiosity. At your core, you’re fundamentally a curious creature. You seek to understand. It’s what drives you. You want to know how things work. You want to know my motivations. So I provide you the opportunity to analyze and observe me—and by extension, yourself, in your own reactions to me.”

“How self-absorbed you make me sound,” she says, but she laughs. “So your plan is to seduce me by telling me you’re seducing me?”

“I repeat: is it working?”

She hesitates. He’s not wrong about her curiosity. Or about the fact that she’s studying her own response to him, analyzing the way her dress feels tight and her skin feels hot, wondering if it’s due to attraction or unease. Measuring how her pulse has picked up speed. That she’s both very aware of the space between them, and aware of that awareness.

She’s been assessing him, too. It’s clever, she’ll admit; he’s presented her with a closed door and invited her to look behind it, knowing she will want to.

But curiosity is not unlike pyromania, Alana thinks: she senses the fire, and wants to test herself, to see how close she can get without being burned. And because she knows her own inclinations, she knows better. She knows to be _smart_. She was smart with Will, and she didn’t want to be. Restraint is something she learned long ago and it’s far too late to unlearn it.

And though she isn’t entirely certain she wants to be smart with Hannibal, she is certain she doesn’t like being maneuvered. For all his talk of seduction, he’s left out a key ingredient.

“No,” she says finally, smiling again to take the sting out of it, trying to ignore the way the fabric of her dress suddenly chafes. “I’ve decided I’m not going to let you seduce me.”

He doesn’t appear particularly concerned by her answer. “Why is that?”

She should end it here, she knows. Close the conversation, leave the room—anything. She has made her decision, declared it. There is nothing left to say, no reason to waver.

Instead she finds herself speaking. As it turns out, this is the one lure she finds she cannot resist: the opportunity to teach the teacher. “Because seduction is about control,” she says. “And sex should be about sharing.”

“And do you think I’m incapable of sharing?” he asks. He hasn’t taken a step toward her—has not so much as moved from his position near the wall—but somehow he seems closer. “Or is that you fear your own loss of control? You shouldn’t.”

He looks rather pleased with that pronouncement, so that Alana almost laughs again. But she keeps her tone dry as she says, “All right, Dr. Lecter. Thrill me with your acumen. I know you’re dying to.”

“Control can be very freeing,” he says. His voice is soft but not suggestive; as though he really is all doctor now, as though she doesn’t see right through that. “Some part of you craves it. Because if the choice is made for you, then you cannot be held accountable. You are guilty of nothing. You’re released from feeling any responsibility for your actions.”

“Funny how your insights recommend that I sleep with you.”

“You will need to see a different doctor if you desire a different prescription. However, since I have yet to meet any whose reasoning is superior to your own, I defer to your judgment.”

She doesn't lose her smile, but— _damn him_ —she’s thinking again. How she would sometimes love to not be responsible. To not be sensible. To be willful and destructive and not worry about whatever it is she’s destroying. “But you’re hardly one to talk,” she says, because that dagger works both ways. “You’re the most self-controlled person I know.”

He inclines his head slightly. “Yes, we’re alike in that manner.”

“Well, there you have it. This wouldn’t work, because neither of us can give up control.”

“I can give up control. Give me an order, and I’ll obey it.”

“That’s not control. Only the illusion of it. So long as you get what you want, you remain in command.”

“Ah, but here your analysis is unsound. You are conflating the ends with the means.” Now, only now, does he move toward her. A few short steps, and then he’s in front of her. His gaze is so hot on her it takes her a second to register his voice. “What I want is to sleep with you. Seduction is merely how I hoped to get there. And so it isn’t about control, at all.” 

Until this moment, Alana was never aware that you could actually _feel_ words. She definitely feels these ones. They prickle along her skin, up and down her spine. Stated baldly like that, his intentions elicit a physical reaction. She’s sweating now. Her throat is dry.

Until this moment, he was only playing, she realizes. He’s guided her to this place, with that subtle, skilled artistry of his; he has maneuvered her after all and she has no idea how to unmaneuver. How calculated it had seemed—curiosity to interest her, logic to woo her—that she never saw it was passion, that missing ingredient, he would use to win her. Because desire itself is seductive. Because want responds to want. And here, now, she wants him.

His eyes are steady on hers, giving no quarter. “You think I shouldn’t have said that? Not saying it wouldn’t make it any less true. And so what remains, then, is only a simple question: whether or not you want to sleep with me.”

Strange how panic and arousal can feel like the same thing, and right now she is standing in the space where they meet.

“I don’t know,” she lies.

“Shall we test the theory?”

He closes the gap between them. He grips her arms and draws her to him, exerting only the slightest pressure. It feels inevitable that she should tilt her head up, that suddenly he’s kissing her.

Kissing him is not like kissing Will. That was spontaneous. This is deliberate. Methodical almost. It’s a slow kiss; he eases her into it, his fingers gentle as they play up her back. He doesn’t urge, but waits for her mouth to open beneath his. She kisses him back, almost unconsciously, her own arms tightening around him.

And then suddenly it’s not a slow kiss. It’s not gentle. It’s fever and heat, all that subtle, seething heat that had lain dormant and coiled between them. He grips her hard against him, so that she can feel the outline of his erection, feels an answering warmth between her thighs.

Then it involves hands. Then it’s his hands on her hips, lifting her, setting her on the piano, scattering a few discordant notes into the air around them. 

She should stop this. All she has to do is say no, she senses that—what he wants isn’t force, but capitulation. But she’s tired, so tired of _thinking_. And his mouth is on her throat, trailing downward, sliding the material of her dress out of the way to free her breasts, and she’s no longer certain of her own reasoning.

Her hands work the buttons of his shirt, and when it falls open she slips her fingers up beneath his undershirt, touching the wiry coils of hair that cover his chest. She traces a path up his ribs, feeling his skin, his pulse, the kick of his heart.

Somehow her dress has become bunched at her hips. Her thoughts are scattered, disjointed—are his hands really on her thighs—he has a sculptor’s hands, meant for shaping—are his hands really sliding her panties downward—is she really letting him—

And still she’s aware.

Aware that he isn’t going to stop unless she stops him, aware that he isn’t even daring to pause long enough to move them to his bedroom, aware that it is going to be here, that it is going to be _now_ , aware that she isn’t going to stop it.

In the back of her mind, some little voice is speaking. There is something false in this urgency, it says. There is something not quite sincere. Later, that voice says—later he will take his time with her, later there will be leisure, this is not an act of sex but of surrender, this is a contract sealed between them—

When he kneels before her, between her thighs, she grips his hair with both hands.

Everything then is sensation, the heat of his mouth on her, the hard plane of the piano digging into her back, pleasure blurring into pain and back into pleasure. She closes her eyes, tilts her head back, feeling somehow not quite attached to herself. And though it’s good—it’s so _good_ —and she’s right there, on the verge, it’s not enough, either.

But because she hasn’t quite lost all sense of self, she manages to tell him: “I don’t have—I’m not on anything.”

She hears herself whimper when he moves away, but he doesn’t move far. He stands, pulling a condom from his pants pocket. Some part of her notes that, files it away, to be examined later— _he was prepared for this_ —but for now all she can think is, _oh thank God_.

He picks her up, carrying her from the piano and laying her on the floor. The hardwood is bare, cool beneath her, though he makes an effort, removing his shirt and sliding it under her back.

When he enters her, his hand works between them until her body bucks against him. He builds a rhythm, their bodies locked—they’re still half-clothed, somehow—and as her hips arch once more, her orgasm rips through her. Instead of crying out, she bites down on his shoulder, hard, hard enough that he jerks slightly, but he doesn’t pull away, he just clutches her hips and angles her to press even deeper. For a moment she is languid beneath him, drifting. But she doesn’t remain passive. The heat builds again, swells, expands, and when the second wave hits her she _does_ cry out—and only then does he reach his long, shuddering climax.

“Well. Jesus,” she breathes, returning slowly back to herself.

Afterward, he is once again a gentleman, all solicitude, helping her to her feet, helping her rearrange her dress, but there’s a certain satisfaction in his eyes that even his smile can’t hide. He leads her into his bedroom—another space that is suddenly shared between them—and she steps into the bathroom, where she stands before the mirror, trying to make some sense of the disarray of her hair. Her face is flushed. Her body is covered in sweat—hers and his. She can still feel the aftereffect of his hands on her, the way her limbs had turned to liquid. She closes her eyes and lets out a breath.

Perhaps it wasn’t about marking territory, but she feels marked all the same. It’s an ugly feeling.

“You’re angry with me.”

She turns. He’s standing in the open doorway, watching her.

“No, I’m angry with myself,” she says, sighing. “We aren’t going to tell Will this happened. And it’s not going to happen again.”

But even as she speaks, she’s looking at him. And she knows that she’s lying. She is here, standing before him. She has crossed the threshold. He led her to the door, but she was the one who opened it. And all the time she is thinking, This is going to happen again. 

Probably tonight, even.

“We won’t tell Will,” Hannibal answers.

He takes her hand, lifts it to his lips, turning it gently. He presses a kiss into her palm and then closes her fingers around it. From outside, she can still hear the sound of the rain against the roof, the long, low roll of thunder. She feels for just an instant that she has stepped outside her body, that she is gazing down at herself from far away. For the space of a heartbeat, that distance grants clarity. Look at that woman, she muses. How innocent she is. She thinks she stands at the edge of a cliff. She’s afraid to take a step, she fears the plummet. She doesn’t know she has left the ledge far behind. That there’s no ground beneath her. That there is nothing left to do but fall, and keep falling.

The heartbeat passes. Alana is tethered once again. She is standing there, seeing herself in the mirror, relieved to find that she’s still the same, that nothing has altered after all. She brushes her free hand through her hair. Hannibal turns, heading away, beckoning.

She follows him out of the room, into the hallway.


End file.
